Fever
by ElleDritch
Summary: Bucky gets sick.


He's screaming again. Wrenching, petrified screams that burst the silence and break Steve's heart into tiny silver pieces. He's instantly on his feet and is halfway across the hallway to Bucky's room before he's even fully awake.

Bucky is thrashing on the bed, eyes tightly shut and sweat beaded across his forehead. "Stop," he's saying, "Stop, please. I don't…" it dissolves into unintelligible muttering and then grows in volume until it's a single shout.

Steve doesn't hesitate; he crosses the wooden floor to Bucky's bed in a single super-soldier leap. Bucky hates surprise touching, so Steve uses his voice, gently repeating Bucky's voice over and over and over, quietly easing him back into the waking world.

Bucky's blue-green eyes crack open to slits. The last shout dies in his throat and he swallows, hard, and blinks. "Steve," he says, voice a croak from his shrieks. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Buck," says Steve. He's sitting next to Bucky on top of the tangled sheets, hand placed on the mattress next to Bucky's shoulder. "Never be sorry. Please."

Bucky shakes his head. "It's been a while," he says, sitting upright and bracing his back against the headboard of the bed. He wraps his arms, one flesh and one metal, around his knees, which he draws up to his chest.

Steve, forgetting for a moment, lays a hand on Bucky's shoulder gently. Bucky immediately lashes out in fight-or-flight response, twisting and pinning Steve's arm against the headboard. Pure fear flashes in his eyes for a moment, turning them bright as fevered sparks. Then he blinks it away and releases Steve's arm. Horrified by what he's done, Bucky places his head again onto his tucked-up knees.

"No touching. Got it." Steve pulls his arm away, rubbing his wrist. Bucky's metal arm is strong.

"I'm sorry," says Bucky, his voice muffled by covers he's drawn up to his face. He's trembling from the brief touch; shakes rock his body and his hair covers his face. "I know I should be over this," he mutters, anger lacing his voice.

"There's no way you should think like that," says Steve. "Recovery is different for everyone. It's always been."

"I'm worried," he says.

"About what, Buck?"

"That I'm not your Bucky."

"What do you mean?" Steve is legitimately perplexed.

"What if the Winter Soldier… what if he changed something about me. Broke something deep in," he drops the covers, revealing his Star Wars pajama shirt, and points to the rough location of his heart. "Something in there. Something that can't be fixed."  
"Bucky-"  
"What if I can't ever go back to being Bucky? What if, forever, some part of me is stuck being the Winter Soldier? What if there's no way for me to heal?

Bucky."

What if the Winter Soldier is so much a part of me that it can never, ever be taken out?"

"Bucky!"

Steve is shaking his head, hard. He looks angry, but when he speaks, his voice is calm. He doesn't touch Bucky, instead taking the covers and drawing them up over Bucky's shoulders. Bucky lies back down and begins to cough. "I think I have a fever," he says.

"Can I touch your forehead?"

Bucky shakes his head. "No."

Steve nods in understanding. "I'll get a thermometer."

He stands up and leaves the room, heading into the area between his bedroom and Bucky's. There are cabinets along the walls and he digs through all the miscellaneous stuff he's shoved in there until he finds the thermometer. Returning to Bucky's room with a glass of water for him, he gently places the device into Bucky's hand.

"What's this?" Bucky stares at it, perplexed. "Is it medicine?"

"Not exactly. It'll tell you what your internal body temperature is, so we can know if you have a fever."

Bucky nods and places the metal between his teeth. The second he feels its coolness, though, he flinches and spits it out.

"Can't have metal in my mouth," he says. "They…. Did something. They put some sort of device in my mind before they…. Before they did the-"

"Shhh. It's alright."

Steve stands. "I can go buy a thermometer that doesn't need to go in your mouth. Just wait here and I'll be back in a few minutes."

"No," says Bucky. "I want to get over this."

He, hand trembling, takes the thermometer and sticks the device, hard, to the back of his throat. He sits there, every muscle clenched and disgust written over his face, perfectly still, all the way until the thermometer starts beeping, signifying that Bucky's body temperature was read.

"Can I tafe if ouf now?" asks Bucky.

"Yeah," says Steve, scooching slightly closer to Bucky; enough to comfort him but not enough to touch his side. Bucky spits out the thermometer and reads the number on it. "One-hundred-three."

"One hundred three? Not one-hundred-point-three?"

"One hundred three-point-zero."

"My god."

That's an insanely high fever and Steve doesn't know what to do. There isn't any medicine in the apartment and he still doesn't know how modern pharmacies work. "I'm gonna call Nat."

Bucky starts coughing again. "F-fine," he says. He grasps for a blanket and pulls it up over his shoulders. He appears to be shivering now. Every fiber in Steve's body wants to wrap Bucky in a close embrace, but he knows Bucky would hate it. So instead he stands and takes the thermometer and heads for the door.

"Buck?" asks Steve, just before leaving the room.

"Yeah?"

"I'm here for you, alright? No matter what. Just because you don't like being touched or you can't have metal in your mouth or you have all these nightmares… none of that is going to make me leave. That would be stupid and that would be wrong. I'm-"

"With me 'till the end of the line. I know." Bucky smiles, but it's impossible to tell if it's real.

Steve smiles back, exits, and closes the door behind him. Bucky stares after him for a moment and then, softly, starts to cry.

The touch aversion comes and goes, like the nightmares, like the moments when Bucky freezes and all he can do is relive the memories - memories of killing, falling, and blood, blood, _blood_ -

And then he's frozen and stiff and cold, so cold, as if the tube of ice still encircles him, as if he's still asleep, as if he's still alone.

Sometimes, Steve can touch him, hug him, run his hands over Bucky's back and behind his clothes and through his hair and kiss him, gently or harder, and Bucky will reciprocate because he's wanted this for as long as he can remember and longer, even, than that.

Kissing is as far as they've ever gone. They revel in the _thereness_ of the other; they kiss and hold and it's pure and it's wonderful, shimmering and shining and so, so long-awaited and so, so _wanted_ by both of them.

But sometimes, for Bucky, every touch, every gentle stroke just brings back memories of violence. Or it feels like his skin and his arm and his mind are not his own, and he can't have Steve nearby. And on those hours or those days, Bucky hides in his room and clings to himself and tries, desperately tries, to be the Bucky he thinks Steve wants.

On the days where Bucky locks himself away, Steve draws. He writes poetry, sometimes, too. It rarely rhymes, but real life doesn't. He stares at the sky and wonders, and sometimes he pictures the ghost of Peggy by his side.

He hopes she's happy. He knows she wants him and Bucky to be happy, too. Something tells him she's up there; in what shape or form, he can't and may never know. But if he knows anything about Peggy, it's that nothing as trivial as death will separate her from the world she loved, the world she made better just by her existence.

Steve leaves the apartment and takes the stairs downward to the street. He leans against the side of the brick building and dials Natasha's number. The sky above him is blue as one of the dresses his mother used to wear. For a moment, he has a vivid memory of her hair blowing in the wind as she hangs the flapping blue cloth on a clothesline and waits for it to dry, so she can sew a dress out of it.

He never got to say goodbye, did he?

When Steve looks back at his phone screen, he finds it blurry. He blinks for a few moments until it clarifies and waits for Natasha to pick up.

"Romanoff here," yawns a sleepy voice from the other end of the line. There's the sound of shifting fabric; Natasha's likely still in bed. "How did you fuck up this time, Rogers?"

"Oh, shut up," mutters Steve, smiling. Nat's utterly exasperating, but he'd trust her with his life. "It's not a fuck-up."

"Sure," she says dryly. "Alright, what do you need help with, then?"

"Maybe I'm just calling to say hello; ever think of that?"

There's a snort. "Come on, Steve. You're always needing my help. Honestly, you're more of a damsel-in-distress than any girl has ever been. What is it this time; can't figure out a microwave?"

"You are _never_ gonna let me forget that one, are you?"

"Nope." Natasha yawns. "But seriously. What is it? This conversation is putting me back to sleep."

"Bucky's sick."

There's a pause. "Shit."

"Exactly. I was wondering if you could possibly go to a pharmacy and pick up some cough medicine and some. Some whatever it is people use for fevers?"

Natasha lets out a long groan. "You owe me big-time, Rogers. Remind me why I should do this instead of you?"

"Because I, the clueless idiot from the forties - you said it, not me - doesn't know how modern pharmacies work. And also I can't seem to go low-profile for the life of me. Someone'll recognize me and then that'll be a mess, seeing as I'm a 'fugitive' and all."

"You're still bitter over that, I see. And so am I, you know. I busted ass for you at that airport and who got all the benefits? You, of course."

"I can't argue with that."

Natasha exhales. Steve knows there's a bit more convincing to be done.

"Natasha, you're a master of disguise. I've never seen someone as skilled as you operate on the ground on a day-to-day basis. I know we all - well, everyone but those who sided with Tony - have to hide. And you're better than most."

"No lie there," sighs Natasha. "Fine. I'll do it. But I can call in _two_ favors from you, okay? You're paying me back with interest this time."

Steve smiles. "You got it, Romanoff."

"Later, Rogers."

She hangs up. Steve looks at the sky. It is kind of pathetic that the Avengers can't really go out anymore; at first, they sometimes would. They'd still have breakfasts together at Avengers tower, or spend the night there, in their old bedrooms. But then some people apparently caught on and the government started guarding the place and the Avengers had to stop returning, instead scattering across the country or camping out at the new Avengers facility. Technically, the Avengers are divided. But rifts are starting to heal.

Steve really isn't good at going low-profile; what he said to Nat was far from untrue. Baseball caps and jackets can get a person much farther than expected, but they are, of course, imperfect. And Steve is the most wanted of all the Avengers, save perhaps Wanda, so it's much safer for Natasha to go out; not only did she sign the Accords but she is the least likely out of all of them to be stupid and get caught.

Turning, Steve pulls his baseball cap lower and walks around the block. He does his best to exude inconspicuousness; despite being large and generally noticeable, he's learned to avoid most people's notice.

He decides to walk to the nearest coffee shop and buy Bucky a hot cocoa. He's about halfway there when Nat calls back.

He picks up.

"Hey, Steve. I bought some cough syrup and Ibuprofen. I'm heading over to your apartment, so let me in, okay?"

"Alright," Steve says. He quickens his pace to the Starbucks, so he can buy the drinks and get back before Natasha arrives. "I might get there a little bit after you, but Bucky'll probably let you in."  
"I don't know, Rogers. His trust issues are sky-high."

"He knows you."  
"Yeah; he remembers shooting me; that's for sure."

"Well, maybe you can bond over that or something."

"Oh, _please_." He can almost hear Nat rolling her eyes.

There's a pause.

"Okay, so why are you out if you're trying to keep a low profile? And if you're out, why didn't you go to the pharmacy instead of dragging me out of bed? Dick move."

"Nat, it's noon."

"I can tell time, goddammit."

"I don't know how modern pharmacies work, as I mentioned." Steve is a bit defensive.

"You literally go up to the person at the desk and ask for the medicine you want."

"Oh." He legitimately hadn't known it was that easy.

"Well, I'd probably be recognized."

Nat sighs. "Yeah; that's unfortunately true. Thanks to sexism, you're much more well-known than me. Though now, I guess, that works to my advantage, huh?

Anyway, I have the medicine and I'll be right over. But if I become the Avengers' errand girl, I swear I will fucking shoot someone."

"Nobody wants you to do that, Natasha."

"Yeah. Thank god."

There's another pause.

"I've been a bit snappish lately, huh?"

"All your points are valid," Steve says.

"Eh. It might be Wanda, if I'm being honest."

The two Avengers ladies are living together somewhere else in New York City, but Nat won't tell Steve where; only that it's nearby.

"What about Wanda?"

"It's nothing. Don't worry about it. I'm fine."

Natasha hangs up. Steve makes a mental note to check on her and walks into the Starbucks.

He's at least 90% sure the barista who works there on early afternoons on Monday knows very well who he is, despite his telling her his name is John. She's made no indications of ratting him out, though, and he tips her generously.

"What'll it be this time?" she asks with a smile when Steve approaches the counter. Steve only comes on Monday afternoons, since he considers her a safe person and doesn't want to risk being served by someone who might also recognize him and take action.

"A small espresso for me, please and something warm, with chocolate and no caffeine, for a friend of mine."

"I suggest the hot chocolate," she says. "It's my favorite drink here, actually."

"That sounds perfect."

"Is your friend…" the barista shoots him a quick look. "Is he alright?"

She definitely knows who Steve is.

"He should be fine."

She nods. "Your drinks should be ready in a moment."

"Thanks you," says Steve. He looks at her nametag, reading that her name is Shelvonne. A lovely name.

He's thanking her for more than the drinks. He's thanking her for keeping him safe, for keeping secrets she is under no obligation to keep.

Shelvonne smiles. "You're a steady customer."

Steve pays for the drinks, tips, and sits down to wait for them to be ready. He watches Shelvonne make the drinks and gives an extra tip when she's not watching. When the two cups are ready, Steve takes his espresso in a few swigs and returns the cup with a grateful "thank you."

A worker he doesn't know takes it and moves it to the back. Steve gives Shelvonne another smile and leaves the store, Bucky's chocolate in hand. As he starts the walk back to his apartment, he knows he's right to place his faith in people; he realizes he has allies in unexpected places, in nooks and crannies, in small, unpresuming places he might never think to look.

It's people, individuals, who are capable of the greatest acts of hope.

Shelvonne is just one person in the great New York City. And he knows there are others like her, people out there who have his back. And, because of one Starbucks barista, he feels a little more safe.

Once he gets back, he leaves the door open for when Natasha arrives and heads straight to Bucky's room. There are no sounds coming from inside, so he knocks on the door gently. "Buck?"

There's no answer. Thinking Bucky's asleep, he opens the door. He finds the room empty; the bed is stripped of everything but the sheet.

Steve's first panicked thought is that Bucky's left; run off into the city.

"Bucky!" he half-shouts into the rest of the apartment. "Bucky!"

A muffled, sleepy-sounding "I'm in here," comes from Steve's bedroom, and Steve's entire body collapses from relief.

Steve rushes in to find Bucky curled up adorably, buried in both the covers from his own bed and the covers from Steve's bed, wearing Steve's favorite jacket and resting his head on Steve's pillows.

"Bucky, what are you doing?" Steve asks, his face breaking into a smile.

"Was cold," says Bucky sleepily. "Smells like you."

Steve breaks into a wide grin. Bucky smiles back, a bit teasingly. "I hope you wouldn't mind."

"Of course I don't," says Steve. He closes his eyes, filling the backs of his eyelids of the picture of Bucky snuggled up on his bed, in his jacket. Then he places the hot chocolate on his desk and joins Bucky on the bed, not touching Bucky but letting him initiate a cuddle if he wants to.

He wants to. Bucky reaches up and drags Steve down to him, kissing him fiercely, desperately, with a feverish mouth. He tucks himself around Steve, pulling him closer and breathing him in. Steve sighs contentedly as Bucky wraps his arm around his waist and presses his head and chest tightly against his back. They lie on the bed, big spoon, little spoon, together, fitting perfectly, as they always have.

"Don't leave," Bucky says shifting slightly. "Not ever. Please."

"I never will."

Bucky sighs and closes his eyes, leaning his head again against Steve's back and holding Steve even tighter.

"Thank you."

That's how Natasha finds them; curled up on the bed together, both asleep, as mid-afternoon light streams through the windows. It paints Steve's blond hair white and Bucky's dark hair gold, and somehow, even Bucky's metal arm looks right and natural when graced by the sun. Or maybe what's natural about it is how it's wrapped around Steve, so tenderly and chastely and respectfully and lovingly that Natasha can't even look at their embrace.

It takes a special kind of love to survive death, to survive a half-century apart.

She leaves the medicine just inside their room and closes the door behind her as she leaves. There are tears in her eyes.


End file.
